


Corruption

by gameboysandsextoys



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gameboysandsextoys/pseuds/gameboysandsextoys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ramsay first received Reek as a present from his Lord Father, he was unsure of how to take the strange, horrendously smelling man. He soon grew to understand that a number of vile lessons could be learned. Including melding the sport of the hunt with his wild sex drive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corruption

_"Reek is a gift! From your Lord Father."_ Ramsay recalled the way in which his mother chirped, nearly bursting at the seams with pride. The man that lurked beside her smelt of dog shit and stale vomit; the boy only gave him a curdled frown. Greasy threads of hair hung limply across his forehead as the stranger idled in the mud. Torn rags covered his hunched form, his mouth was a collection of brown and rotting teeth, and his eyes were dark and wild. **"He smells."** Ramsay chided and folded his arms across his chest, his mop of dark eyes falling over to shadow his queerly pale eyes. The eyes of his father. An open handed slap was dealt across his cheek for his retort, his lack of gratitude. _"This is just the beginning, Ramsay."_ The woman spoke in a hushed voice, stern disapproval in her dull green eyes. _"Perhaps one day you shall live in the Dreadfort, the very castle, thanks to all I've done for you."_ She jutted a knobby finger dramatically in his face, to which he recoiled slightly. A muted rage writhed in his belly as he watched her, and red blossomed slowly across the side of his face from where he had been slapped. Reek stood there, ever silent, though his focus was intent on Ramsay. The boy misliked it. **"Yes mother."** He added meekly as he wiped rainwater from his forehead. Somehow content with his redemption, his mother trudged off toward their ramshackle farm house, slamming the flimsy door against its frame as she went.  
  
His pale gaze lingered on the muddy footprints that rounded the yard, pig and goat and chicken. It _squelched_ as he nervously shifted his weight from leg to the other, lingering while he waited for Reek to say something. When he didn't, Ramsay forced himself to equal his intrusive gaze and snorted, **"So why are you here? Are you a fool? An arms master? Why would my father send me you?"** Reek smacked his lips, a crooked smile forming there. _"Milord, I am here to teach you everything you need to know."_ Dumbfounded, Ramsay blinked slowly, he had never been called a Lord before. The title swelled in his chest until a smirk slithered onto his wormy lips. _I quite like the sound of that_ , he considered to himself for a long moment before serving Reek with a sharp nod. The day was dreary, grey clouds hung low in the sky, and even while outdoors, one felt stifled and claustrophobic. Rain had poured that morning, leaving the farmhouse slumped in the mud while the animals huddled in the leaking barn for warmth. It may have still been summer, but the North was ever cold. Reek started forward, a knowing smile done up on his face as he depleted the space between them. The smell was atrocious, but Ramsay kept his eyes upward defiant, he was a hard-willed child, that much was clear. Reek's blackened fingertips looped about his broad chin and jerked his head upward, _"Listen to me, and you will achieve everything you've ever wanted."_ His pale eyes were still, stern against the contrasting set before he shoved the man away. He was no more than eight.  
  
As the months passed, the duo became more and more inseparable. Reek took pleasure in molding young Ramsay, whispering cruel inklings in his ear, to which his untamable rage took hold. He become an angry boy, violent, and cruel. He began lashing out as his mother, and igniting physical gripes between them. But as the anger welled ever more vehemently in his chest with every passing day, Reek strove to relieve such stress. One morning he approached the boy with a bow and a quiver of arrows. A cruel spark ignited in his queerly pale eyes, his breath caught in his chest. **"When do I learn to use it?"** He yelped, as his pudgy fingers grasped the fine wood, and traced the details lovingly. _"Now."_ Each morning, Reek would tow Ramsay into the wood alongside the farmhouse, each day deeper, further from the babble of civilization. He practiced with still targets, then moving ones, until finally he began to take down squirrels and rabbits and chipmunks. With Reek's chided guidance, Ramsay learned how to peel the flesh apart from the muscle, the dirk trembled from concentration in his clammy grasp, yet after some months, he began to grow more accustomed to the delicacy of it all. Ramsay began presenting his mother with the pelts of the game he hunted and flayed, to which she showed little interest.  
  
The years passed, and soon the influence of Reek of Ramsay and Ramsay on Reek grew muddled. Both were violent, conniving men, though Ramsay strove to outshine his odd companion, to earn his father's approval. _"You're practically a Lord!"_ Reek was chirping as they sat in a hollow of the wood, mounts grazing idly nearby. Crickets chirped in the damp, hidden places of the brush, and a fire crackled between them, low and red. Ramsay was poised on a log, carefully skinning a doe, his plush lips pressed together thoughtfully. He was still a boy, three and ten, but he felt much older, more _entitled_ than perhaps he should. His pale eyes didn't jump from where the edge of his knife slid beneath the pelt, prying it from the thick meat beneath, they would eat well that eve. **"And?"** He prompted, uninterested in Reek's endless chatter of praise, it was growing tiresome, even for one as self-obsessed as he. _"There was once a law where the Lord of a land claimed the bride before the groom--"_ Ramsay cut him off, **"I know this, Reek, my mother never fails to remind me of the terms of my consummation."** He growled lowly, eyes still unmoving from his task. _"I was trying to say, is tha' you should 'ave that same right, milord. To bed who you will... even if it be taken by force."_ It was then that his hands paused, fingers buried within the beast strewn across his lap, and Ramsay raised his head, pale eyes squinted. **"And how do you propose we go about this? It seems a bit... _unimaginative_ for my taste."** Reek flexed his fingers, grinning with that slimy smile of his, clearly the idea had been stewing in his mind for some time. _"Why not spend time doing two things you love, milord?"_ The silence that swallowed their camp was a tense one, but all the while Ramsay's thoughts churned, his eyes glazed and far off. **"Yes, Reek, I do believe I would very much enjoy the sport of it all."**  
  
The first woman to fall victim was a mousy thing. She had long, skinny limbs and large hands with protruding knuckles. Her face was only slightly more comely than the rest of her; she had crooked teeth, but a nice smile, save her lips were closed. The tumble of frizzy hair was a shade of brown that looked grey, and her wide doe-like eyes were a similar shade of silver. Reek had lured her from her father's farm several miles to the East, with promises of the finery she would receive for bedding the trueborn son of Lord Roose. She was all a twitter, caught up in her own fantasies of being the Lady of the Dreadfort for her to realize that he was leading her into the forest, rather than toward the castle. When Reek pulled up his mount, she perched behind him, the girl looked doubtfully about. _"This isn't the castle, where are you bringin' me?"_ Her mouth was a spitfire, which would not bode well. Reek reached back to snag a fistful of her hair in his hand and threw her down from atop to horse. She yelped out in pain as her body sagged against the assortment of rocks, sticks, and pine needles beneath her. _"What are you doing?"_ Jeyne screamed, tears brimming in her eyes as Ramsay rode up, a smile drawn up on his heavy features. _"And who are you? You're not Domeric, you're some filthy peasant bo--"_ By then Ramsay had dismounted and sauntered to where she laid, brimming with confidence. Immediately, he laid a backhanded slap across her face. The tears flowed steadily now, lower lip trembling, yet she she remained silent. Jeyne cowered as Ramsay knelt down beside her, **"I will be Lord of the Dreadfort, don't you worry, sweetling. Too bad you won't be alive to see it."**  
  
The hilt of his knife was well worn, so comfortable in his grasp that it merely felt as a deadly extension of his arm. He waved the blade it her face. **"Turn over."** He had asked nicely enough, though she remained unmoving, which sent a spark of rage blazing through his chest. Ramsay snatched a fist full of her messy brown hair and forced her face aggressively into the mud, he was already hard, invigorated by the what was about to unfold. His gloved fingers tore at her skirts until her deliciously curved bottom wriggled before his face. Ramsay fumbled to unbuckle his breeches and draw his erection forth; he wasted no time in forcing himself into her. The delicious mixture of screams and sobs only encouraged him to drive his hips more aggressively against hers, a wicked grin done up on his brutish features. In a matter of minutes, he climaxed within her, his chest heaving and Jeyne's eyes violent red from crying. Once he had pulled his trouser back up around his waist, he turned and began cutting away the drab, grey fabric of her dress. This resulted in more energetic wails of anguish, but she made not move to stop him. By the time she was curled, naked and bruised in the sot of the forest, Ramsay had remounted his steed, looking already bored by the lull in action. **"Run."** His voice boomed as he went to restring his bow. _"Wha-what?"_ Jeyne had twisted into a bit of a sitting position, but she still looked as a crippled hatchling, fearful and dirtied. **"I told you, to run. You have an hour to get as far from this place as you can before I start after you."** By then his bow sat steady between lithe fingertips, his pale eyes etching intrusively over her nude body. She would have called him a lair if not for the gleam in his eyes, the feral look of anticipation that one would expect from a hunting hound. With that, she scrambled to her feet and took off into the brush, tears seeping from her eyes, bare feet unsteady in her frantic attempt to escape.  
  
Several hours later, Ramsay sat alone in a low hanging branch of a soldier pine, legs swinging carelessly as he watched the sun set from between the army of wood and leaf. Garish red stained his hands up to the elbow, but idly he began to wipe them away, every last smudge of evidence, with a cloth soaked in stream water. A song was soft on his lips as he began to hum, working silently to clean himself while the skin of Grey Jeyne hung limply beside him, already attracting a legion of flies. Ramsay hoped to keep it, as a _trophy_ of his first hunt upon two-legged prey. The rush that had swirled within his chest as his mount thundered through the woods was unmeasured. His fingertips still trembled from the onslaught of adrenaline to his system.Reek was off, disposing of the corpse, so Ramsay relished in the quiet breathing of the forest all about him. _House Bolton was known for flaying their enemies alive._ He repeated over and over in his head. The pride that bloated his chest threatened to burst as he smiled down at his dirk, marred with bright crimson. He had overtaken her in under an hour, they could hear her sobs from practically a mile off. The first arrow had punctured her breast, the second her belly. Blood had dribbled from her mouth as he plucked the arrows mercilessly from the flesh. They squelched and cracked as the bone was split, all the while she trembled, slate eyes wide as she watched death approach with that light-footed creep of his. She was still clutching to life as he began with her face. The knife cut so easily between the skin and the muscle, though Ramsay found some difficulty where her limbs narrowed and scraped the bone. Far off, Ramsay heard the lonely howl of a wolf and tossed the crimson towel from where it was knotted in his hands. _One day father, one day I will show you I'm just the heir you always craved._


End file.
